M is for Mourning

I haven't always been the perfect daughter! Who is? My mother and I have always had a somewhat volatile relationship. Three and a half years ago, we had a terrible falling out. I chose not allow her behavior in front of my children to continue.

I stopped speaking to her, and because of my choice, the remainder of my family chose not to speak to me. I mourned this "death" for a very long time. I wrote this poem long before I knew she was ill. Dying from brain cancer.

MOURNING CLOAK

The mourning happens
When I miss you most,
Mother.

Each longing, a small death,
Leading me through our
family crypt of dysfunction.

I break the lock, swatting cobwebs of tangled
memories from my face, spewing angry epitaphs,
etched into your granite heart.

Is your skin now paper, thin?
Have you forgotten what it is, you need to remember?
Or do you prefer age as your excuse.

The sharp shards of your slated words
impale me, one at a time.
"I. Wish."

The “Never,” scraping, flaying me,
The “had,” exposing, tearing away,
“You!”

I inhale, turn back to my life without you,
Shrug off the mourning cloak
Of my life, of you.
I lock the crypt once more.

As of today, she is home from the nursing home, Hospice caring for her.

I saw my mother two months ago, she still recognized me, her grandchildren, and my husband. She could hardly speak. But she knew us, knew we had come, that I was there.

We've visited her twice since. Her last words to me were 4, 5 , 6, 7. This is how she responded to all questions, counting. Counting down, counting seconds?

Now she is completely lost now, locked inside her head. No more words.

I love you, Mom!

Goodbye To a Friend!

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was celebrating my daughter’s birthday with a bunch of girls. We were making necklaces and then going to a French bakery for tea and cake, to complete the festivities. In the middle of this, my cell rang.

“Joyce?”

“Yes, this is Joyce.”

“My mom is very sick, dying.”

So now, I sit at terminal B20, waiting for my flight to board to Orlando. My destination is not the ‘House of Mouse’, but a hospital in Ocala. I’ll be saying goodbye to a woman I have know since I was 5.

Peg Errico has always had a kind word, and a shoulder, and an ear for me. Childhood was spent with her six children. July fourth parades watched from their big front porch at 52 Ramapo Avenue (by the way, the house is currently for sale). Barbeques in their back yard, and an occasional elusive view of grandma Errico in the little house out back.

As we all grew up, we would visit them at the ponderosa, camp with them in the massive tent, which we could almost fit everyone from both families in.

But what I remember most, sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Errico and talking about everything, while she cooked dinner for her brood. The years slipped away, and after they moved to upstate New York, we would visit. The old farmhouse they bought was massive, and everyone fit. We would go to the Altamont Fair and run through the cornfields playing hide-n-seek, but it wasn’t the same.

After Frank retired, they moved to Ocala, FL, I saw them rarely for a few years.

A few years later, my parents bought a summer place in Willsboro, NY and Frank and Peg Errico did shortly after. Our families were deeply, lovingly entwined, and this was the natural progression of staying close.

I would see the Erricos during summer visits and always tried to plan to see Frank and Peg. A few years back, I stopped going to the lake house. Mrs. Errico called me just before last Christmas, wanted to let me know she wanted to see me.

“I’ll come to the lake,” I said.

“I don’t think I’ll be there this summer.”

I knew what she meant.

“Call me and I’ll come to Florida.”

“You will?”

And I am. Waiting for the flight to board.

I tucked my children into bed last night after booking a flight, explaining to them why I was going and wishing it were a vacation with them, to swim in the ocean and make memories. My son tells me to tell them [Erricos] he loves them; my daughter in tears, her current struggles with mortality rampant at 10; sad that people die. Sadder still, her memories of the Erricos are fuzzy, and hard to recall.

Instead, I leave them semi-asleep in their beds at 5:30 this morning. Wishing I were home, angry with my nomadic self, at how happy a small part of me is, to be getting on a plane, even for this journey.

This trip signifies so much; with her passing, Peg Errico takes my childhood with her. Causing me, to reflect on things I would rather forget. Choices I’ve made, words I’ve tossed around. Peg always had a smile for me, and loved me unconditionally, my successes meant something to her, and she always let me know how much she appreciate who I was.

I go to say goodbye, with a light heart. To give support her children and to show her I loved her.

Peace.

Seven Years Of Small Town Living

I love my small town!

New London, NH a NY Times Best Destination






I have for the entire time we’ve lived here. 

Seven years ago, this month to be as close to exact s I can. We came to New London for the first time when the company my husband was interviewing with invited to spend the weekend and check out area. We drove through down Main Street and fell in love. The snow was heavy that winter. We awoke to 13 inches of bright white snow. We drove all around the town, down snow covered dirt roads, looked at houses, dreamed of all the new possibilities and fell in love with New Hampshire. 

My husband moved up at the end of April, the kids and I arrived the day we closed on the sale of our home in Connecticut. We moved into a rental. A safe bet, until we found just the right home for us. 

Our first summer in New London was just wonderful. Our days were spent at the beach; sunset swims and picnics whenever we wanted. Weekends were spent exploring the state. It was the most relaxed summer we’ve ever had.

Then winter struck!

Winter can get to you. Frost heaves the size of Mt Washington, potholes you could swim in if they weren’t frozen solid, sand ground into the carpet, and road salt making jagged rings on your favorite boots. Not the wonderland we remembered from the winter trip the year before.

Now seven winters later - I still wouldn’t trade it all in. It might be February 2, and we are certain to have more snow, but try as I might to get over it all, I would miss this place. I don’t remember exactly when it became home to me. The moment that matters most, is the moment I realized I wanted to call this place my home for the remainder of my life.

Even on the winter days when the people I like the most really get under my skin like a jagged splinter from the woodpile. When words spew forth without a filter from their lips, because cabin fever has set in, and everyone is irritable and waiting for the thaw. Small scandals grow ripe for gossip and even friends get snippy.

I wrote a poem about it.

UMBRELLA

Sometimes it’s hard to stay friends 
under an umbrella for one.
Bird’s constant chirping 
about this friend, that friend. Gossip
growing old, growing cold, mean.

Frog can’t decide, stay and 
listen, go and share. Rain like tears, 
glisten as Bird prattles on. 
Talks of Duck’s tail, Squirrel’s hoarding.

Mouse takes a chance on friendship.
Robin, stop! Our friends 
are who they are. Bird you are 
flibbertigibbet. Everyone says so. 
Robin blinks, thinks and stops.

Frog smiles.

On these days I think about why we chose to live here, and, I try very hard to find something good in everyone. To come up with an excuse as to why they are acting or saying the things they are. 

I don’t always succeed!